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The Day Off…

Well, yesterday W and I had our “day off” – his parents had O and M to stay overnight. W’s dad picked them up at around 10am. I was both happy and sad. Happy because we had the house to ourselves, and sad because I missed them both, and because I was worried that M would scream constantly and have to be brought back early.

I had planned to go over to the house of a friend of my mum’s, who is helping me make my wedding dress because I’m an idiot – the last time I sewed anything significant I was fifteen. Maybe fourteen. And that was a t-shirt. In essence, I need all the help I can get because I have a tendency to jump in at the deep end with things. In the end, to save a little time, she came to me, and we made the most of the empty house to cut out the panels for the bodice on the living room floor. It took a while longer than it perhaps should have because I was somewhat terrified by the fact that I had chosen a fabric that had been discontinued, so if I screwed up there wouldn’t be enough to finish. Again, I know: idiot. Words cannot express how stupid I can be at times, and picking a fabric I would barely have enough of to make my first major garment which happens to be my wedding dress is up there with the daftest things I’ve ever attempted. Still, later projects will be a breeze by comparison, eh?

Anyway. That wasn’t actually the point of this post. After cutting out the fabric, deciding “to hell with it” with my plans to tidy, and spending the rest of the afternoon wandering around town and marking the panels of my bodice with what felt like hundreds of fiddly little tacking knots to match them together properly, W and I decided to go out to the pub, and then get something nice for dinner. Only, the second part didn’t end up happening, because while we were sat in the pub trying to decide on a place to go, I suddenly had a burning need to get home. For once I actually realised in time that I was going to have a seizure at some imminent point.

So of course we walked, fairly briskly, back home, and I robotically removed my shoes and slumped onto the sofa. Sure enough, I had a seizure – fortunately not a long one. But afterwards, when I felt the sensation of “weird” leaving me in about as much time as it takes to count to, say, five, I realised that I felt a lot better – more relaxed, and content – than I had all afternoon. I’d started feeling stressed while working on my dress, but hadn’t made that connection, probably because I never realise until after it’s over. It made me think though.

So many time I’ll find myself getting worked up over trivial things (which I was with the dress), and just get on with it, wondering later what I was so worried about. Or I’ll soldier on despite feeling dog tired, or cold, or hot, or tense, or lethargic. So much of my time I seem to be battling to focus on what I should be doing, because there’s this background hum of something being not right. If even half of the time that’s resulting from seizure activity, that’s one heck of a lot more seizures than I’ve been tallying.

Oh, and I got a letter yesterday telling me that the epilepsy nurse is still sick, and all of her clinics have been cancelled until further notice. Perfect timing. Did I commit some atrocity in a past life or something, or pick up the bad-luck lurgy? Because it just seems right now that every time I take a step forward, something pushes me back again. Right when I really need my specialists the most, they are all falling ill. And while the irony of that isn’t lost on me, I really would like to see someone who can help me not have seizures all the freaking time. Preferably before I die of old age.